Streams
by Cadence
Summary: Four short stream of consciousness stories illustrating various forms of character insanity. Hopefully, anyway.
1.

Balance

**Waiting**

Quiet, quiet, quiet - buzzing in his ears. So old a silence he forgot. Names. Language.

Little sister, squalling in the corner. Harsh, a sound he couldn't know. It was all he remembered. Poor little sister, crying on the floor.

It was red. The floor. Cracked and peeling, like paint. Not red - dried - on the floor, in the dark. Was it night?

It was always night.

Red, but not. On their skin, cold and dead and parental. Too quiet to know names. Little sister, little sister. Red on her, staining black hair. What was her name?

Little sister.

Like his name, if he remembered, soft on the sand, he'd left. Leave the house, leave the dead, decaying bodies, the blood.

On his hands?

Maybe if he knew, had the words. But it was quiet in the desert - shifting, strange sand beneath bare toes. He was waiting, for that long dead man who'd promised.

Father?

Questions. But it was night, quiet. How could he know?

A beam broke the hollow black, unmelted glass desert. His dirty clothes were chipped, dull brown. And his hands - itching. He wanted to scratch, but not to bleed. They were already family.

The light was a car. The long dead man.

Golden. Like eyes.

Legato had been waiting.

note: This is the direct result of reading William Faulkner. And yes, I do know that stream of consciousness is supposed to be first person, but much as I love the guy, I don't want to get that close to Legato's cracked mind. 'Sides, I'm not entirely sure he even thinks very much like that. I could see him mentally being in a permanent third person state of mind. Really. I'm not just making up elaborate excuses for myself. Oh, and the gratuitous Legato's little sister reference was way out of line. 'Specially without proposing an fate or identity for the kid. Sorry. Oh and . . . sand!

Trigun is copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours. 


	2. 

Balance

**Lullaby**

I still remember it, my first taste of humanity.

I remember the chill of recycled air rushing past me in almost frictionless hurry. The abrasion of his coarse knuckles against my ignorant skin. The bone deep pain that rung inside my skull futilely.

The taste of blood against smooth teeth.

I remember it. On nights like these, it's the only thing I know.

That man, that grotesque, disgusting man. He _touched_ me. He _hit_ me. He debased me with those meaty human hands as thoroughly and vilely as any rape.

He showed me humanity.

He tried to lower me to their level, make me live their pain and suffering. He tried to drag me into their immorality, their hell.

They kill each other, you know. They steal - life and property and innocence.

And I hate them. All of them. Even her. Especially her.

She tried to make me believe.

It would have worked, if not for him. I won't even pronounce his name in my mind, he doesn't deserve one. Can't have one. He's just humanity, a soulless embodiment of that low animal race.

She tried to make me believe they were higher than that. To believe that, even if they weren't, that they wanted to be.

She called us angels, and tried to break our wings..

It's only right that they die. That she died.

Even if Vash hates me for it. I was just protecting my little brother, trying to preserve what made him better than the humans. They follow my orders, kill. Just as base as any others.

I dirty myself with their devotion, but it is for a higher cause. It's for Vash.

I can taste red, seeping blood in my mouth on nights like these, feel the sharp, madness tinged air numbing my skin. I remember the taste, the pain. Vash remembers the sound of her voice.

And I almost envy my brother.

She'd lied, defended the guilty, stolen my brother. Hurt me, more than that man.

But I can't sleep, knowing only that pain. I want my brother, the warm brush of his mind. I can't have him. Yet.

If I'm quiet, however, I can have her. The soft voice singing in the back of my brother's mind. It lulls me to sleep on nights like these.

That's why I hate her.

notes: I wrote this a *way* long time ago at about three am. It is therefore victim to three am syndrome, whereby I think that statements like "the sun emits light" and mind numbingly hilarious and that this actually has enough to do with a lullaby to be titled such. I'm a scary person at three am. As usual, not dark enough. And not pretty enough. Dangit, I like English to actually sound like the nifty language it is. 

Trigun is copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours. 


	3. 

Balance

**Balance**

Seconds. Years. Days. Minutes. Centuries. Don't know, don't understand without her voice. I can't hear it and its been that long.

He's won, but he hasn't. She has, in failure. I want to hear her again. Been so long.

That's why he smiles at my back. Why the anger burns him cold when I kill.

When I kill. I. Yes. I kill.

Again, again. And he frowns. Burns, hates me. Hates seeing me corrupted. Killing.

And I know why. Twisted up. Dirty and dangerous and sparking something crazy. Me, not him.

Rational. He's rational, always rational. Likes his mirror tarnished.

Hates me.

But I don't hate him. Love him. Love him, love _her_ more.

Balance, that's the word. My gun's balanced, silver and tarnished and in my hand clicking, clicking.

I told you! Balance. Nice word, soft in my head like she is. Was. It's been so long. Seconds? Centuries?

I remember a different battle. People, friends. Death and pain. Doesn't make any sense. I may have won.

But he's won, now. Now, now remember to share. Yes, Rem. Good boys.

Taking turns. But I won, I think. Even now. I killed her. The sharp one, the one more grey than gold - not me, not me - thought he did. But it was me.

But it's the only way!!!!!

I miss her. She's dead. Both. Her _and_ her. Death in my hand, I resurrect and kill them. The priest was wrong. I don't have to sacrifice.

I have my brother.

He hates.

Me.

But - balance. There's a song that's a reason. And I hear it.

I hear it, when it clicks, when they die. She _sings_ to me.

And I need her. I need her. Her, only her. Don't know which. Her.

They die and I hear her and she dies and I have to hear her again.

Didn't sacrifice, I have everything now.

note: Uh . . . right. This is my version of Vash crazy. Barring AU, I tried to come up with a reason for him to kill other than desperate situations. This is the result. It's funny, because I think Vash evil would be the utterly most devastating force _ever _(which is why he has to be the hero) and Knives good would just be a wuss or a hippy. Umm, the repetition seems a little overly much to me. It's pretty disjointed, but then again, he's supposed to be nuts. Not sure I like it at all, even if I'm at terms with it enough to post.

Trigun is copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours. 


	4. 

Balance

**So. . .**

The light shudders as it slides across my face, its crescent waves rippling across the rust colored floor. It, the rust, tips against my boots, grasping at my toes. Liquid, liquid rust, tasting my sandy feet. Gritty-dirty.

The room isn't. It's clean. Pretty, all the shining rust. Meant metal. Like the ship.

She liked red.

Clicking in my hand, not red but another shining. I brought her closer. I miss her song. Need.

Die, die, die. . . I'd die to hear it. Kill her to make her sing. Ghost and skeleton, dried and no no no sand. Murmur in my ears.

There were two. Had been. Are. Long ago but there is no time, history. A single grain of gritty time. Blend and blur to stretch. Tear us apart.

Bring us together with a click. Stop the non-time, tiny and yellow in my boot. Sticky red flowing.

Cling to the floor. Cling to the sand. Time and life and a puddle spreading.

Sing to me?

Against the sky in drops of petals.

Heavy in my hand, I bring her back.

His back, hates me now. He won. Hates me now. Love him. Love Her. Both. Once upon and in this instant.

Do it for Her! Need the words. I need the words. Lullaby in my head, singing me to death. Theirs. Kill her again, die myself.

He's glaring at me. Frowning. But he won? I kill.

For her.

She comes and I kill and she comes and she sings and she dies.

So. . .

Click.

note: This is the second attempt at a crazy Vash fic. He comes off as more desperate than crazy, so I'll pretend that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe after *spoiler*. Dunno. I like some of the descriptions better this time around, but it doesn't seem very stream of consciousness-y. Uh, and more obsessing with sand. Threw in some blood just for fun. Mmm, symbols. I'm actually beginning to wonder how many times I've mentioned sand in my fics. Hella.

Trigun is copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours. 


End file.
